The Blue Collar Bachelors Box Set: The Complete Blue Collar Bachelors Series

by Miller, Cassie-Ann L.

  Longing mixes with regret. This girl could be so much fun to play with.

  If I were here under different circumstances…

  Chapter Three

  Sadie

  There’s something people should know about me.

  I love rock and roll music. The old school stuff—AC/DC, Led Zeppelin, Guns N’ Roses, stuff my dad used to blast around the house—and when it comes over the speakers, it really doesn’t matter where I am or what I’m doing, I’m gonna have to shake my ass. At least a little bit.

  So, that’s exactly what I’m doing when Natalie comes out of the kitchen, carrying a tray of fresh raspberry jelly cupcakes to refill the display.

  “Stop it!” she hisses anxiously then glances around to see if anyone’s watching. “You know how Viv gets when she sees you goofing off in front of the customers.” As she bends to pop the first cupcake onto the display rack, her gaze stutters on my legs. She grunts, annoyed. “And are those my Bermuda shorts you’re wearing?”

  They are her Bermuda shorts. (I haven’t done laundry in ages.) But I think I’ll ignore that part of the conversation.

  I strut on over to where she’s standing and bump my hip into hers, matching the kick of the drum. “Oh, lighten up. It’s not like the customers are paying me attention anyway.”

  As usual, the Broken Cupcake is bustling.

  Over on the rustic bench by the large picture window, Sophia looks weary, stealing sips of her extra large black coffee while trying to shepherd the sugar-drunk toddlers from her daycare as they smear lemon-cream frosting in each other’s hair.

  The horny teenaged couple in the overstuffed beanie chairs in the corner have abandoned their iced coffees in favour of dry-humping and devouring each other’s faces like it’s something straight off the lunch menu.

  There’s a senior couple in the pink armchairs at the back. The old man has nodded off after a half dozen donuts but his wife sits quietly finishing her vanilla cupcake and crossword puzzle.

  The regulars are accustomed to my jam sessions. Nobody’s paying me any mind.

  Still dancing, I grab a rag and wipe crumbs from the counter. “Besides, Vivian isn’t here,” I remind my friend. “That means I’m the boss.” Feeling pretty proud of my new interim general manager position, I pop my collar exaggeratedly.

  With quick, efficient movements, Nat finishes arranging the cupcakes. She giggles despite herself. “You’re power-tripping,” she says over her shoulder, wiping her free hand on her apron as she takes the empty tray back in the direction of the kitchen.

  “It comes with the title,” I retort facetiously right before she slips around the bend, her fiery red ponytail swishing behind her.

  Joking around comes as second nature to me but I know Nat is right. I glance around at the bakery’s busy bee workforce, bustling about behind the counter, dutifully replenishing the stock depleted at the height of the morning rush. I need to set a good example for them. I need to be professional in front of the customers. I need to take my position seriously.

  I started here as a part-time cashier a few months ago, picking up the odd shift between classes but I recently got upgraded big time. It was pure luck. Vivian and Reese, the two sisters who own the bakery, both wound up falling in love and getting knocked up at the same time. Between their morning sickness and their swollen ankles—and let’s not forget their disgustingly, overactive libidos—the ladies seem to spend most of their time in bed with their sexy fiancés these days. So, they were desperately in need of help running the shop.

  The sisters’ offer came right around the time that I realized I’d have to take yet another semester off from business school because I wasn’t going to be able to come up with my tuition money by the deadline. So the promotion was a godsend.

  Managing the shop is an incredible opportunity for me to gain hands-on business experience while I’m taking this sabbatical from school. Reese and Viv put a tremendous amount of trust in me, giving me this position. I don’t want to screw it up.

  I straighten the apron around my hips and tuck my uniform shirt neatly into the waistband of my borrowed (...stolen?) Bermuda shorts even though it’s the last thing I feel like doing right now. Adulting sucks hairy balls. On a heavy sigh, I spin around to start a fresh pot of coffee. That’s when I catch a glimpse of myself in the glimmering stainless steel panel of the industrial coffee machine.

  I literally jolt.

  Fuck—I’d forgotten that is what my face looks like.

  Today is a low point for my face. Despite my best efforts, I’m exhibiting all the classic signs of hot mess syndrome. I usually go bareface but right now, I have a pound of makeup caked onto my wounded eye. The skin still looks puffy and sickly green beneath the many layers of concealer. Thanks to the moustache removal gone wrong, I look like I have a sunburn circling my mouth.

  And then, there’s my hair…I’m learning that the beauty about using dollar store hair dye is that it’s not strong enough to do any real damage. So, even though I left it in way longer than is safe according to the instructions on the box, I’m glad to report that my hair is not falling out in chunks.

  At least not yet.

  Instead, my mane has inexplicably mutated from bleach blonde into a drab shade of brown that falls somewhere between sewer water and garden compost on the color spectrum. My natural hair color. Yuck!

  I’ve been actively trying to suppress the memory of last night, and for the most part, it’s been working. Except for when I happen to bump into my reflection in any of the numerous reflective surfaces in the shop—why does everything around here have to be so damn shiny?—or when the smug, chiseled face of my new landlord floats across my thoughts.

  I still can’t get over how much of a moron I was last night, when I rushed through his apartment door—practically naked aside from the plastic shower cap on my head—and nearly knocked him to the ground as I charged for his bathroom like a one-woman buffalo stampede.

  I cringe from top to bottom when I think of the range of emotions his face displayed when he looked at me in my wet-chicken, post-rinse state. Shock. Pity. Amusement. It’s clear that the guy thinks I’m a joke.

  It’s not like I’ve never dealt with people thinking they’re better than me. I’ve dealt with that a whole lot and I usually don’t give a fuck about their opinions.

  The problem is, for the first time in my life, I care. I care that I looked like an absolute fool in front of him, I care that I made a terrible first impression, I care that he probably has a pretty unflattering conception about me.

  And I can’t figure out why I care.

  God knows I’m not perfect but I’ve never had a problem with my confidence before. I know who I am and I’m okay with me. I don’t let society’s norms and expectations get me down. I just don’t understand what it was about the guy that had me second-guessing myself.

  I was unnerved. Me. Sadie Nichols. Unnerved.

  Yes, I tried to play it off, hiding behind my sassy remarks and my catty comebacks, acting like I wasn't completely fumbling to keep my footing as I stood there in front of him in nothing but a bath towel. Meanwhile, I was a fluttery mess on the inside.

  Maybe I shouldn’t be so hard on myself. It’s not like I really stood a chance against him. He’s a charming bastard with an intoxicating accent, a potent smile and bulging muscles. I’m human. I can only withstand so much.

  In any case, I don’t like this feeling. It’s unfamiliar and uncomfortable. That’s why I’ve made the decision to stay away from him. For the next eighty-nine days, I’m just going to steer clear of his path, until he goes back to wherever the hell it is he says he came from. That shouldn’t be as difficult as it sounds.

  Luckily, he was fast asleep when I used his bathroom this morning. When I snuck out after my shower, I left the key on the hallway table. And by the time I get home from work tonight, my water problem should be resolved so I won't need to face him then. As for the other repairs, I’m willing to bet he’s go
ing to hire a handyman to take care of them because there’s no way he’s gonna risk getting those neatly-groomed fingernails dirty. Plus, I work strange hours, leaving the house at the crack of dawn, long before the rest of the world rolls out of bed, so there's only a slim chance of running into him on my way out the door. My free time, I’ll spend at Nat’s house.

  So, there. That’s my eighty-nine-day plan of avoidance. Sounds pretty solid to me.

  I turn my attention to the rotund mid-twenties red-head with the frantic eyes and the stiff business suit as she approaches the cash register with her cell phone in a death grip. She's been eating her feelings all morning—chocolate-espresso cupcakes being her poison of choice—as she waits for a callback about a job she interviewed for earlier today. Poor thing. I feel for her. I’ll keep serving up the moral support, no problem, as long as she keeps paying for these cupcakes.

  "Hey Susan," I greet her solemnly. "Any news?"

  She shakes her head and promptly launches into another anxious rambling stream about how much she needs this job and how great she'd be at it and how that company would be crazy not to hire her.

  Natalie finishes up arranging another tray of pastries in the display case and leans on the counter to join in the conversation. We both uh-huh and ah-hah in unison, empathizing with the woman's professional woes.

  At the sound of the bell above the entrance, I look over that way. And it's like a nightmare come true, moving in slow motion through the front door of the cupcake shop.

  I freeze.

  Xavier.

  Dressed in navy blue cargo shorts and a short-sleeved white T-shirt straining against the powerful bulge of his arms. My throat goes dry when he lifts the sunglasses from his eyes and drags his sinewy forearm across his hairline to chase away beads of sweat.

  I watch him close his eyes briefly and draw in a deep breath. His broad chest expands and his plush lips curl with delight as he indulges in the rich, delicious scents of the bakery. My attention hooks on the movement of his tongue as it slides along his bottom lip.

  Something goes tight in the hollow of my belly. The back of my scalp tingles. It must be a delayed reaction to the cheap hair dye.

  “Holy crap!” Susan mutters. “Who is that walking sex doll?” Her appreciative stare is hooked on the spot where the man is standing.

  "It's him," I croak past the knot in my throat.

  Natalie looks dumbfounded, fanning her flushed cheeks with both hands. "You know that guy?"

  "Don't look! Don’t look!" I whisper-shout frantically, hunching my shoulders and ducking down a little as if that will somehow make me smaller. I grit out through my teeth. "That's my new landlord."

  “Oooh!” I gave my best friend a rundown of last night’s events as we were prepping to open the shop this morning. Now, she can put a face to the humiliating story. "You definitely did not tell me he was that hot." She glares at me, her eyes telegraphing her disappointment in me.

  Suddenly, Susan's not all that concerned about her lack of employment. I hear her whisper breathily. "Dayum. Your landlord? My landlord is like a hundred years old. And he smells like floor varnish and urine…” Her eyes are a little bit desperate when she glances at me. “Looking for a roommate, by chance?"

  Bitch, you don't have a job!

  "Stop staring," I scold them. "I don’t want him coming over here."

  Susan gives me a baffled gaze.

  "It's a long story," Nat tells her then sets both elbows on the counter and cradles her chin, peering dreamily in Xavier’s direction.

  "Stop. Staring."

  Dammit. Dammit. Dammit.

  His gaze moves slowly around the bakery, starting at Sophia and her daycare brood on the window bench before moving to Romeo and Juliet on the beanie chairs and then sliding to the drowsy seniors in the armchairs. An image of what I currently look like flashes across my mind. Oh horror!

  And I do what any sane girl would do in this situation—I spin around to make a dash for the back office.

  In hindsight, it was a pretty dumb move. And totally out of character for me, too. I don’t care about the opinions of random strangers, remember? But I guess it was sort of a reflex.

  A reflex I quickly come to regret.

  I scream as I crash into an employee carrying a jumbo pitcher of lemonade toward the countertop juice dispenser.

  The poor, flustered girl apologizes profusely as the contents of the plastic jug splash across my chest before falling to the floor, dashing lemonade up all around. The arctic juice seeps through the layers of my clothing, making my bones shake and my teeth clatter. Natalie and Susan gasp in unison.

  And, of course, the commotion draws Xavier’s attention, the very thing I was trying to avoid.

  When I glance over his way, I find his eyes on me. Actually, every person in the cupcake shop is looking at me.

  I sprint into the back of the bakery anyway.

  Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.

  I’ve never been that girl. The one who loses all her wits and makes dumb life choices anytime a hot guy looks her way. I’ve always pitied that girl, found her weak. But here I am, hiding behind a wall, perched on top of our new delivery of brown takeout paper bags, questioning the meaning of my life and too flustered to face the charming bastard who claims to be my temporary landlord.

  What am I doing? This is not me. I don’t let men intimidate me, no matter how pretty and well-built and suave they are.

  From my hideout on the other side of the wall, I hear Natalie using her best customer service voice. "Good morning," she chirps. "Welcome to the Broken Cupcake. What can I do for you?"

  Meanwhile, cold, syrupy juice dribbles past my belly button into my crotch.

  I loosen the strings of my wet apron and tear it over my head before flinging it to the floor. I shudder when I hear Xavier’s mirthful voice speaking to Nat. "Good morning, love. You can get me Sadie, please."

  My stomach flips at his request. What the hell does he want with me? Oh hell no. I'm not moving from back here until he leaves.

  I grip the hem of my shirt and give it a good wring. A few sticky droplets fall free onto the box I’m crouched on. "I'm not here,” I mouth quietly as I shake my head vigorously, sending my bestie a telepathic signal.

  And because Nat is the best of all time, she says, “I-I’m sorry. Sadie just…stepped out."

  Telepathy is real, y’all.

  "We can take a message if you'd like," Susan volunteers, her voice husky and seductive.

  Well, that proposition doesn’t satisfy the bastard. "Are you sure she’s not around? Because I'm pretty sure I just saw her standing here."

  Nat immediately starts stuttering. Because she’s a freaking girl scout. And girl scouts are terrible liars. "She, uh, she...just…"

  “Might have been another one of the employees,” Susan offers. “They all look the same in that boring, old uniform, don’t they?”

  Gee. Thanks, Susan.

  Xavier chuckles in his throat. “If this place has more than one employee walking around with a black eye, I’d say it might be time we call someone in to take a look into the working conditions here. Don’t you think?”

  I can almost feel his energy shuffling closer now. I hear shoe soles scuffing the concrete floor.

  Natalie squeaks with panic. "No! Sir, you can't be back there." I imagine her pointing at the big, red sign above the doorway. “Employees only! Employees only!”

  The flap of the countertop slams and my blood pressure spikes. I stand here, paralyzed by disbelief. He wouldn’t actually come back here…

  “I’ll just be a minute, love,” he assures her calmly.

  Would he?

  Oh yes, he would.

  I see his shadow stretching across the back wall before I actually see his face.

  "You can't be back there!" Nat protests weakly.

  But it's too late. And now, Xavier is standing in front of me, arms folded across his broad chest as he peers down on me, braced against the side of
the wall. His grin widens. "There you are, darling."

  Ugh! What an asshole!

  I bounce to my feet with an angry huff. "Okay, fine. You win. Here I am," I shout, flinging my arms up into the air.

  And he freezes.

  The smirk falls from his face. His eyes haze over and zero in on my chest. His Adam's apple scales the length of his throat as he swallows. Following his gaze, I look down at my shirt.

  Now, before I go any further, let me tell you my views on bras. Y'see, bras suck!

  They squeeze your tits. They hurt your back. Underwire is generally a pain. I usually don’t wear them, especially not to work. The bib of my pink and black Broken Cupcake apron is huge and it usually acts as the perfect cover up. But right now, my apron is laying in a soggy pile at my feet and the hardened peaks of my areolas are poking through the wet fabric of my thin, white uniform top like a pair of headlights on the hood of an old Chevy.

  Xavier yanks the neckline of his own T-shirt away from his throat, his skin suddenly looking heated under the fluorescent lights.

  "Fucking shit!" I mumble as I fold my arms across my chest, glancing down at the unopened box of brown paper bags. Never in my life have I been so tempted to yank one of those suckers over my damn face. I resist the urge. Instead, I growl, pinning him with an unfriendly stare. "What do you want?"

  His tongue travels across the seam of his lips and he slowly lifts his attention from my chest. When his eyes meet mine, his pupils are dilated and intense. He shakes his head brusquely, snapping his attention back to the situation at hand. "I just—I need the key to your apartment. For the plumber." He gives me an impish smile.

  I really want to be mad at him because he’s so damn frustrating. Did he have to show up at my job right now, especially when I’m still so keyed up from last night? And does he have to smell so masculine and mouth-watering? The space between my thighs really likes the way he’s looking at me. What the hell is wrong with me today?

  I think I’m more pissed at myself than I am at him. This attraction is stupid. It's making me act like a fool. I barely recognize myself when I'm standing close to him. The feeling is overwhelming. Maybe that's why I'm constantly trying to run away, to escape through a bathroom window or hide behind a wall on a box of brown paper bags. But I'm not doing that anymore.